The Conquest: The True Story of Lewis and Clark

  XXII

  _MULBERRY HILL_

  On a beautiful eminence three miles south of Louisville, John Clarkbuilt his pioneer Kentucky home. Louisville itself consisted of but afew log cabins around a fortification built by George Rogers Clark.

  This family home, so far from the centre, was stockaded by itself, adouble log house, two and a half stories high, with hall through themiddle.

  Every night a negro stood sentinel, there were portholes in thepickets, and Indians hid in the canebrakes. Once while the youngladies were out walking an Indian shot a little negro girl and theycarried her back wounded, behind the pickets at Mulberry Hill.

  The floor of the long dining-room was of wood, hard as a bone, andover the seven-foot mantel stag-horns and swords of the Revolutionwere lit by the light of the cavernous fireplace.

  Rigid economy and untiring industry had been the rule at the old Clarkhome in Caroline, and not less was it here. There were no pianos, butuntil midnight the hum of the wheel made music.

  Enchanted the young people listened to tale and song and hum of wheel,while down the great chimney top calmly smiled the pensive stars.

  Little thought they of bare walls, low rafters, or small windows.After the boys hauled in the logs on a hand-sled, and built up a greatflame, the whole world seemed illuminated. The pewter basins shonelike mirrors, and while their fingers flew in the light of the fire,stories were told of Kaskaskia, Vincennes, St. Louis. But the Donna?Clark never spoke of her. It was a hidden grief that made him everlonely. When he saw the lovelight all around him and sometimes leftthe room, the mother wondered why sudden silence came upon the group.

  At Mulberry Hill Lucy was married to Major Croghan, who, on a farmfive miles out, built Locust Grove, an English mansion of the oldenstyle, in its day the handsomest in Louisville. And Fanny? She was thebelle of Kentucky. In powdered wig and ruffles many a grave Virginiantripped with her the minuet and contra dances of the Revolution.

  More and more young William became enamoured of the Indian dress, andwent about gaily singing the songs of Robin Hood and hacking the meatwith his hunting knife.

  Out over the game-trails of Kentucky, like the beaten streets ofFredericksburg, the only city he ever knew, young William went withthe Boones, Kenton, and his own famous brother, George Rogers Clark,in peltry cap and buckskin hunting-shirt girded with a leathern belt.

  Led by them, with what eagerness he shot his first buffalo, deep inthe woods of Kentucky. Not much longer could bears, deer, and buffaloretreat to the cane. With the coming of the Clarks an emigration setin that was to last for a hundred years.

  Even amusements partook of sportive adventure. Now it was the hunter'shorn summoning the neighbours to a bear chase in the adjoining hills.William surpassed the Indian himself in imitating the bark of thewolf, the hoot of the owl, the whistle of the whippoorwill.

  Daniel Boone came often to Mulberry Hill in leggings and moccasins,ever hunting, hunting, hunting beaver, bear and coon, wolves andwild-cats, deer and foxes, and going back to trade their skins inMaryland for frontier furniture, knives and buttons, scissors, nails,and tea.

  Upon his shot-pouch strap Boone fastened his moccasin awl with abuckhorn handle made out of an old clasp-knife, and carried along withhim a roll of buckskin to mend his mocassins. While the grizzledhunter stitched deftly at his moccasins, William and York sat by,engaged in the same pastime, for wherever William went, York was hisshadow.

  "Since poor Richard's uncertain fate I can never trust the boy alone,"said his mother. "York, it is your business to guard your youngmaster." And he did, to the ends of the earth.

  When "Uncle Daniel," rolled in a blanket, threw himself down on a bedof leaves and slept with his feet to the fire to prevent rheumatism,York and William lay down too, sleeping by turns and listening forIndians.

  At daylight, loosely belting their fringed hunting shirts into walletsfor carrying bread, a chunk of jerked beef, or tow for the gun, withtomahawk on the right side and scalping knife on the left, each in aleathern case, again they set off under the reddening forest.

  Skilled in the lore of woodcraft, watchful of clouds and stars andsun, an intimate student of insect life and own brother to the wilybeaver, bear, and buffalo, William Clark was becoming a scientist.

  Returning from the chase with the same sort of game that graced theSaxon board before the Norman conquest, he sat down to hear the talkof statesmen. For when Clark's commission was revoked, Kentucky,unprotected, called a convention to form a State.

  Affairs that in European lands are left to kings and their ministers,were discussed in the firelight of every cabin. Public safety demandedaction. Exposed on three sides to savage inroads, with their Virginiacapital hundreds of miles beyond forest, mountains, and rivers, nowonder Kentucky pleaded for statehood.

  In a despotic country the people sleep. Here every nerve was awake.Discussion, discussion, discussion, made every fireside a school ofpolitics; even boys in buckskin considered the nation's welfare.

  Before he was seventeen William Clark was made an ensign and proudlydonned the eagle and blue ribbon of the Cincinnati, a society of thesoldiers of the Revolution of which Washington himself was president.Educated in the backwoods and by the cabin firelight, young Williamwas already developing the striking bearing and bold unwaveringcharacter of his brother.

  "What can have become of Richard?" Every day the mother heart glanceddown the long avenue of catalpas that were growing in front ofMulberry Hill.

  Of the whole family, the gentle affectionate Richard was an especialfavourite. He was coming from Kaskaskia to see his mother, but neverarrived. One day his horse and saddlebags were found on the banks ofthe Wabash. Was he killed by the Indians, or was he drowned? No oneever knew.

  Again George Rogers Clark was out making treaties with the Indians toclose up the Revolution, but British emissaries had been whispering intheir ears, "Make the Ohio the boundary."

  At last, after long delays, a few of the tribes came in to the councilat the mouth of the Great Miami, some in friendship, some like theShawnees, rudely suggestive of treachery.

  "The war is over," explained General Clark as chairman; "we desire tolive in peace with our red brethren. If such be the will of theShawnees, let some of their wise men speak."

  There was silence as they whiffed at the council pipes. Then a tallchief arose and glanced at the handful of whites and at his own threehundred along the walls of the council house.

  "We come here to offer you two pieces of wampum. You know what theymean. Choose." Dropping the beaded emblems upon the table the savageturned to his seat by the wall.

  Pale, calm as a statue, but with flashing eye, Clark tangled hisslender cane into the belts and--flung them at the chiefs.

  "Ugh!"

  Every Indian was up with knife unsheathed, every white stood with handon his sword. Into their very teeth the Long Knife had flung back thechallenge, "Peace, or War."

  Like hounds in leash they strained, ready to leap, when the lordlyLong Knife raised his arm and grinding the wampum beneath his heelthundered,--

  "_Dogs, you may go!_"

  One moment they wavered, then broke and fled tumultuously from thecouncil house.

  All night they debated in the woods near the fort. In the morning,"Let me sign," said Buckongahelas.

  Smiling, Clark guided the hand of the boastful Delaware, and all therest signed with him.